


Music

by ambrosie



Series: And I have been visited by an angel [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, idk what i expected of this bc erik is just disjointed in his thoughts, its 2020 im writing poto fic and not particularly well BUT ok, its from a tumblr meme again haha wow, love how this went from motn to final lair in like 3 sentences whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambrosie/pseuds/ambrosie
Summary: Music is her, and there is only silence.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: And I have been visited by an angel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738570
Kudos: 6





	Music

**Author's Note:**

> from that meme where u gotta write a drabble without the word in question, the word in question is 'love'. 
> 
> erik's thoughts are entirely messy and this jumps around and i am Very sorry whoops

He has lured her this night, away from a place that perhaps she should’ve been— but the boy knew nothing of her. Of the person she had become. Raoul did not know Christine Daaé like Erik did, that had become his excuse for this. His excuse for this one sin, the greatest one. Not that sin could stain his heart any further than it already had. Not that it could break— Because dead hearts would remain dead, and his had shattered long ago.

That was the blessing of a broken heart, it would only break once. Wounds like that did not heal with time, so if everything fell apart here, it would only be a scratch. At least, he told himself that. 

He sings, and so does she, and surely those above could hear them. What others could not do was understand. Music was a language of its own, one which Erik considered his first. How many things could he say with song that he could not say in words? He’d never been good at words, after all.

But music? Music enveloped him. Music was some sacred thing that he wished to share with her, with this young woman who had strolled into his life. For this young woman who had become his muse. For her, music, the most intimate sort. 

Music lights the fifth cellar, welcomes her to this hidden home. Music is in his touch, so very gentle. Music is … 

Music is _her_. 

Wasn’t he the one who was meant to play the part of the seducer? Sacrilegious as it was for him, her so-called Angel of music, to draw her into a kingdom where the light she once knew was gone, it was meant to be his part. Yet, she sang with him and he felt as if he was in such a haze. What power she held over him, a power he only could call music. 

It is music that flows in them when the curtains fall, when he blows out the candles. When she dares not ask him about the dress and the doll or the scattered drawings and unsent letters. It is music that makes him show mercy, rather common sense, because what proper man simply decided to lay with a girl in this way — when it would shatter her heart— And really, did Erik know her any better than Raoul? He knew she sang, that she lost her father, that her best friend was a dark-skinned dancer with midnight curls that Christine so very much envied. How she had confided in him many a time that she wished to be like Meg! _She’s so graceful, Angel. Do you watch her dance? She’s meant for it, not like me. I’m not like Meg, I’m always off tempo. I think Mme Giry wanted to say something to me yesterday, but I came here to talk to you instead._ He’d told Christine that Mme Giry did not hate her dancing, and that she didn’t have to be like Meg, and if he had to guess, Meg Giry would not be a dancer forever, but perhaps one day she would be a Duchess. 

None of these things made him know her any better than Raoul, and in fact if he truly thought of it, the only thing he really had in common with Christine Daaé was music. Music would allow her a peaceful sleep, and it would allow him to simply watch the rise and fall of her chest before retiring to his own room. She would dream, perhaps, of music, and it would guide her to wherever she was meant to be. To a place of light where she deserved to be.

That same music would leave him there, shattered. And music had not broken his heart, no, music had taken it with her when she took the hand of the boy who knew nothing about her. 

Music is _her_ , and there is only silence.


End file.
